


Cycling

by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Drama, M/M, Olympics AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 22:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joni_Beloni/pseuds/jonius_belonius
Summary: Mike is training hard to repeat his gold medal cycling win from 2012.  A surprise requirement for doping tests sends him to Harvey for legal help.  Attraction grows between them.  Will Mike gain more than a medal this time around?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll be the first to admit that I am no scientist, or much of a bicyclist, or any sort of serious athlete. I’ve tried to research and absorb the issues of blood doping in sports, but it is certainly more complicated than depicted in this story. I’ve simplified some things, and altered others slightly for dramatic effect, both in the science and sports aspects of the story. Mike Ross of Team USA obviously won nothing in the real world. I hope any actual experts or cycling enthusiasts who read this will forgive the inaccuracies.
> 
> Thanks to naias for the beta! I made lots of last minute changes based on your input, which I think made it a much stronger story. I wish I would have had enough time to take you up on your generous offer to take another look at it before I sent it off, but I was actually rewriting almost up until the last minute. I always appreciate your spot on observations.

**London Olympics 2012**

The world went silent as Mike pumped the pedals.  Everything locked into perfect balance and harmony -- muscle, sinew, cartilage, flesh, pedals and handlebars and the texture of the track, the thud of his heart and the flow of oxygen to his fingertips and toes and lungs and brain.  The crowd in the velodrome, on their feet, waving flags and screaming encouragement to their favorites, blurred into a confused kaleidoscope of color.

His final competitor sped just ahead of him, his rear wheel at Mike’s shoulder.  They flew around the last turn, and to Mike, it seemed as if the other rider was suddenly frozen in place.  Mike put on a burst of speed, blazing past him and over the finish line.

Sound returned in a roar, cheering for him from every direction, shouts of, “USA … USA.”  All week, he’d held his emotion inside – all the grief, excitement, and elation – as he won heat after heat on his advance to the finals.  Now, he let it all out, raising his hands in the air, kissing his fingertips and sending the kiss towards heaven.

“That was for you,” he whispered to his grandmother, who had always believed in him, and had sacrificed so much to get him here.  “For you, Grammy.”

In a daze, he completed his victory laps, draped in the US flag a stranger had thrust at him, taking it all in and knowing that he would never forget this moment.

And if a faint voice in the back of his mind warned him that at twenty-three years old he had peaked, and nothing that came afterwards would ever feel this sublime, he ignored the voice, and reveled in the moment.

 

******

**Queens, New York 2016**

 

Mike’s legs felt like lead.  His trainer, Louis, had him doing resistance intervals for half the morning and Mike was seconds away from a full-blown tantrum.  He might have indulged himself, except that several reporters had shown up at the velodrome again, no doubt waiting to catch the “bad boy of cycling” in another meltdown.  He’d already provided plenty of online entertainment for both his fans and detractors, and had promised both Louis and himself to be on his best behavior.  When he reached his next recovery phase, he tapped his headset and spoke into the microphone.

“Louis – ”

“No way, Mike.  Keep at it.  Three more.  You know the schedule.”

“It’s fucking freezing out here.  I can finish this on my indoor trainer.”

“The schedule is sacred.  We’ve talked about this.  Trials are less than two months away.”

Mike threw some more flavorful language at Louis, but after three and a half years together, the man was virtually immune to Mike’s complaints.  He completed the requisite intervals, even as his glutes and quads felt like wet cement.  At least his knee wasn’t giving him any trouble today, which he took as an encouraging sign.

After his final three-minute active recovery, he coasted the rest of the way around the track and stopped in front of Louis.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the next rider pedal onto the track and begin her workout.  A quick glance beyond Louis at the press corps showed that all but one of the reporting crew had left, probably to find the closest bar and commiserate on their shitty assignment.

Louis was already talking in his typical rapid-fire manner, and Mike felt a headache threatening.

“Not bad, buddy.  Your time is almost where it needs to be, but you’re still looking awful sluggish on the turns.”

“It’s all turns.”

“Exactly my point.  Because when I said, 'not bad' just now, what I meant was terrible and embarrassing.  Are you following the diet I e-mailed you?”

“Yes, and it's disgusting.  I’d kill for a pizza.”

“Hilarious.  You know perfectly well that a pizza at this juncture would kill your chances for Rio, and those chances are already on life support.  You wanna do this?  You gotta keep your eyes on the prize.”

Mike nodded absently.  The prize.  Gold in Rio.  All the major cycling publications had pegged him a year ago as the favorite to win the individual sprint again.  Louis had badgered him into training for the keirin, and the two team races: sprint and pursuit. 

He knew he could qualify for the individual sprint, unless he injured his knee again.  Physically, he felt ready (or at least on pace to be ready) for the keirin, but it was a new event for him, and he needed some more actual races under his belt to help build his confidence.   The team events were contingent on him being selected, and with his shitty reputation these days, both the sprint and pursuit team events remained huge question marks.

He wanted it all, though, all four events, all four golds.  If he bettered his London performance, maybe people would stop implying that his gold in London had been a fluke, or that his grandmother’s death one week before the opening ceremony had been the extra motivation he needed to drive him to victory.  As if being thoroughly gutted and distraught had benefited him somehow.

“Are you listening to me?”

Mike hadn’t been, but he nodded anyway.

“So, it’s pee in a cup time now, and then all you have to do is sign this agreement to testing prior to all races – ”

“Wait.  What?  Whoa.  Just hold your horses.  What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ha.  I knew you weren't listening.  The USOC is cracking down this year.  They want everyone tested, ASAP, and again in Colorado Springs, no exceptions.”

“I’m not doping Louis.  You know that better than anyone.”

“I do.  But the committee needs assurances, especially since … you know.”

“Jesus.  That was almost two years ago.”  Twenty-one months, to be exact, when a random drug test had revealed the pot he’d smoked over a week prior to the race in Redmond.  “And it’s not as if it would have helped me win.  It's legal in Washington state, anyway.”

“Calm down.  They’re not singling you out.  Everyone got the same directive.”  He waved a sheet of paper at Mike.

“Let me see that.”  Louis handed over an official looking letter to Mike, and he scanned through it rapidly.  He frowned as he read, but it wasn’t until he reached the last paragraph that the alarm bells began to clang.  “Wait a goddamn minute.  They want me to submit to a CO2 rebreather test _before_ competition?”

“Yeah?  So?  That’s standard for blood doping, right?”

Sometimes Mike forgot that Louis was relatively new to the cycling world.  He’d previously trained world class runners before he agreed to take Mike on, and he’d done his homework exceptionally well, but the whole doping issue in cycling was complicated.  While a blood test or urinalysis could determine if performance enhancing drugs had been used, blood doping was trickier.

It had been only a dozen years since a test had been approved to detect homologous doping – that is, the use of someone else’s blood – by detecting markers in the blood.  Autologous doping (using one’s own blood) was harder to detect, and the only test available required the athlete to be tested close to race time, by inhaling CO2 for ten to fifteen minutes, which had the unfortunate side-effect of potentially adversely affecting performance.  The letter he held in his hand specified that due to Mike’s previous drug use, he would be required to submit to the CO2 rebreathing test at the Olympic trials in Colorado Springs.

“Louis, this is bullshit.”  He jabbed the letter in Louis’s face.  “They’re setting me up to lose.”

“Well, sack up, junior, because it’s either comply or sit Rio out.”

Mike dismounted and practically threw his bike at Louis, knowing he’d catch the expensive piece of equipment before it hit the ground. 

“Well then, you’d better figure something out, or we just wasted three and a half years, because I’m not signing anything.  Use some of my endorsement money and hire me a competent attorney.”

He toed off his shoes and threw those after the bike.  After a half second of consideration, he peeled off his windbreaker and tank top, and biting spring wind be damned, stomped off barefoot and shirtless to the locker room.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cameraman who had leapt to his feet to film him, and cursed inwardly, knowing he’d just provided more ammunition for the gossip sites.  He’d regret it later, but at that moment he was too steamed to care.

He’d already been ninety percent sure that the US Cycling Federation had it in for him, but evidently the US Olympic Committee was gunning for him as well.  The sympathetic figure he’d cut in London, of the tragic orphan and bereaved grandson, had lasted until he’d begun acting out, and then collapsed completely when the revelations about his drug use had surfaced.  The two fights he’d been involved in last year hadn’t helped, even though he hadn’t started either one, and the second had been the result of a supposed fan getting too friendly at a club.

_Fuck it all.  Let them think what they wanted.  They always did._

******

After a longer than usual shower, which helped to calm him down, Mike headed for the whirlpool.  This wasn't part of the training Louis had prescribed for him, but he was convinced that he benefited from a hot, half-hour soak after his workout on the track.  As he came through the door with his towel wrapped around his waist, bright light shone in his face and he threw up a hand to shield his eyes.

"Logan Sanders, Action Sports 7," announced the shadowy figure from behind the light.  "I'm here speaking with Mike Ross, cycling gold medalist in London, who is hoping for a spot on the Rio team this summer.  Have you been staying out of trouble, Mike?"

Sanders thrust his microphone at Mike's face.  "Um.  Yes?"  His hand twitched against the towel, while he remembered all the times in the past that Sanders had ambushed him.  The young reporter seemed determined to make a name for himself covering the private lives of athletes, Mike's in particular.  This line of thought gave Mike a wicked idea.

"You're, uh, gonna have to pixelate this if you keep filming."  He hesitated for a few seconds.  Sanders' cameraman kept the lens pointed at Mike, so he shrugged, dropped the towel, and climbed slowly into the whirlpool, giving the camera a good, long view of his naked bottom. 

When Mike was seated in the water, he looked up again.  Sanders had his microphone pointed at the floor, and he looked pissed off.

Space was tight inside the tub, buy Mike arched an eyebrow at Sanders and patted the seat next to him.  "Care to join me, handsome?  This thing's pretty sweet."

Fighting a scowl, Sanders lifted his microphone.  "I was hoping to get you on the record regarding the USOC's new testing requirements."

 _Don't say anything,_ Mike ordered himself.  _Just keep your damn mouth shut.  Or tell him no comment._  

As usual, emotion overruled good sense.  "You want me on the record?  Fine.  I'll go on the record."

 

******

_"I'll go on the record.  The USOC are a bunch of – bleep bleep bleep – who can take their collective heads and stick them up their collective – bleeeeps."_

The slick lawyer – Harvey something – that Louis had hired lifted the remote and shut off the television in the conference room.  "That's some mouth you've got on you, kid."

Mike leaned back in his chair as far as its design would allow, and scowled at Harvey.  "I only said all that shit to make the recording unusable.  They just aired it to make me look bad."

"Well, mission accomplished."  Harvey regarded him seriously from across the table.  "Although your reputation wasn't in great shape to begin with."

"I am aware."

"Did you seriously think that rant –"  Harvey nodded at the blank screen.  " -- would do anything to repair your reputation?"

Mike sighed, wishing that Louis or Katrina – his agent – had agreed to accompany him to this meeting.  Both had claimed they were too busy.  They were probably busy trying to replace him with a more compliant client, he thought glumly. 

"Look," he said, "I'm a loose cannon.  I get it.  No one ever asks me the easy questions, like, 'how's the training going?"  Or, "how do you rate your chances at nationals?'  No, it's always, 'smoked any pot lately?'  'Sources tell us you're doping.  Care to comment on that?'  Oh, and my personal favorite, 'was that man we saw you with last night another paid escort, or just a casual acquaintance?'  And before you ask, the answers to those last three questions are, no, absolutely not, and none of your goddamn business."

"Allow me to be blunt, Mr. Ross."

"Mike."

"All right, Mike.  If I take this case, everything about you will become my business.  You need to be straight with me."

"Straight, huh?"  Mike smirked at him.  "That might be a problem."

Harvey stared at him, eyes dark and assessing, lips pressed together.  "If the USOC tested you right now, today, would they find anything?"

Mike shot to his feet.  "Fuck you.  I don't need this shit."  He took one angry step toward the door, but stopped short when Harvey caught his arm in a strong grip.

"You can walk out the door," murmured Harvey in his ear, "and find another attorney.  If you do, your chances of competing in Rio fall to next to zero.  Or, you can sit your ass back down, listen to me, and do what I tell you.  Decide.  You have five seconds."

Mike shivered as Harvey's breath puffed against his ear and neck, and his hand sent electricity through his entire body.  Harvey had confidence, that much was clear.  If he could back that up with results ...

"Two seconds."

"I'll stay."

"Then sit."

Mike practically dove for the chair and plunked back down.  He grinned up at Harvey, deciding to be amused by his aggressive attitude.  "So.  I'm listening, Harvey.  How are you going to win me my case?"

 

******

 

 

Mike had come to the conclusion several years ago, that he enjoyed his distance days best.  He didn't have Louis screaming in his ear, for one thing.  He could let the miles and the scenery roll past, and just think.  Not all his competitors subscribed to the importance of distance training, but Mike believed it helped his endurance in the later heats, and Louis had agreed with him.  Even on the most bone-chillingly cold or rainy days, even during the long, frustrating months of his knee problems, it absolutely improved his outlook.

Today, he spent the miles enjoying the surprisingly warm spring day and ruminating on Harvey Specter.  Mike had gone into their first meeting prepared to despise Harvey on general principles.  Part of him still did.  With his gelled hair and obscenely expensive suits, he was everything Mike had sworn he would never be.  Inside the suit, though, Mike could see Harvey kept himself in excellent shape, so points for that.  His face was definitely drool-worthy, with cheekbones that could cut glass, and a wide, beautiful mouth that nearly caused Mike to forget the purpose of their meeting.

Harvey had laid out a strategy, which he demanded Mike follow.  No more late nights, no more clubs, no more cursing out reporters, and no more public tantrums.

"Hey," Mike had protested, "I don't do tantrums."

Harvey gave a scornful laugh which only made him appear even more ridiculously handsome.  "Have you Googled 'Mike Ross tantrums' lately?"

"I try not to get caught up in what other people think about me."

"So, that's a no.  At the end of the clip I just showed you, 'Logan Sanders Action Sports 7' has a shot of you nearly knocking your trainer over with your twenty-five thousand dollar bike."

Harvey had done his homework.  Still, Mike couldn't resist correcting him.  "Twenty-six thousand, actually, but who's counting?"

"Your sponsors?  The U.S. Cycling Federation?  Your trainer?"

"Louis knows I'm a little high strung.  He's cool with it."  Mike fidgeted in his chair, wishing Harvey would stop pacing up and down the room.  It was starting to get on his nerves.

"Is he?  Is that why he asked me to look at his contract and see what his options were if things got too – and I'm quoting here – 'too dicey with the little prick'."

"Okay, first of all, 'little' is way off base.  And secondly, fuck him anyway.  I don't need him to qualify at nationals."

"Oh, really?  Is that why you hunted him down and begged him to take you on following your freefall after London?"

Mike slumped forward, leaning on his elbows and scrubbing his hands through his hair.  "Okay.  Okay, guilty.  Guilty, guilty, guilty.  You got me.  I needed him more than he needed me.  No one in cycling would touch me after my spectacular breakup with Trevor." 

Trevor Evans, his last trainer, and manager, and lover, and best friend, who had left Mike – in all capacities – after Mike's spectacular flameout.  He hadn't disappeared quietly either, choosing instead to go nuclear on Mike in interview after interview, detailing his heavy drinking, and serial cheating, and even how he had traded his gold medal for a blow job from a male prostitute who had propositioned him at a club.  (He'd eventually gotten the medal back, but not before he'd been branded un-Olympic, and worse, un-American by the more judgmental media outlets.)

Frowning up at Harvey, Mike continued, "I have no excuses for any of that.  I was fucked in the head after Gra – after my grandmother died.  And the way the press used that … they used _her_ to build me up as some kind of tragic paragon of virtue and suffering, who soldiered through to victory."  He barked out a laugh.  "The truth was, I was numb.  I was in shock, and I didn't know what the hell I was doing half the time in London.  I don't even remember the medal ceremony clearly, just the sounds of the crowd, which were probably roars of approval, but sounded to me in that moment more like the unified, hate-filled screaming of the entire world, berating me for being a shallow, selfish, horrible excuse for a grandson by even being there."

Harvey was giving him an odd piercing look.  He'd stopped pacing, and stood across the table from Mike with his arms crossed.   "I remember that.  I don't usually watch much Olympics besides the boxing, but they replayed that particular ceremony over and over."

Another bitter laugh from Mike.  "That's because I forgot to put my hand on my heart when the national anthem played.  You would have thought I'd murdered the Pope's blind puppies and sold their corpses on eBay, or something worse.  That's all anyone wanted to ask me about for weeks afterwards.  'Why do you hate America?'  That was right around the time my numbness wore off and the grief hit, like a fucking tsunami."

"So, you acted out."

"To put it mildly.  I was a dumb kid, with money in my pocket, adoring fans, emotional problems, and no support system.  Of course I acted out."  Mike saw Harvey tilt his head to one side, and he had to chuckle.  "I know what you're thinking.  What's my excuse now?"  He groaned as he remembered what Harvey had said about Louis.  "What did you tell him?  My trainer, that is."

"I told him that if he even thought about jumping ship before Rio, I'd murder his cat and sell it on eBay."

"How did you know – "  Mike grinned and pointed a finger a Harvey.  "You know what?  I didn't think I was going to like you, but I was wrong.  You possess a certain … _badassery._ This, I can work with."

Harvey stuck his hands in his pockets, the perfect picture of insolent ease.  "Glad to hear it.  Just keep in mind that I'm the only one in this room allowed to be a badass."

"Hold on a minute."

"No matter what you think you are, or what you actually are in private, in public you need to be the very model of kindness, honesty, integrity and good sportsmanship.  If you can't manage that, then even if you've never touched a performance enhancing drug, or considered blood doping, the USOC and Cycling Federation are going to find some way to get you disqualified.  At the very least, they'll keep you out of the team events.  Something tells me that's not what you want."

Mike had gotten distracted listening to Harvey's voice, and watching the sexy way he prowled around the room.  He'd heard him, though.  "Um.  No.  That's not what I want.  I guess I can give it a try.  What about the new testing requirements?  I'm clean, so I don't have a problem with most of them.  The addition of the CO2 test is bullshit harassment against me.  I'm betting no one else is required to take it."

"I did a little digging around, and you're right about that.  I got us a hearing next week.  Chances are the judge will kick it back to either the USOC or the Cycling Federation."

"Great.  I'm pretty much fucked, then."

"Not necessarily.  I'll round up some experts, and get signed statements from your trainer and the team doctor.  In the meantime, keep your nose – and any other pertinent appendages – clean.  Oh, and maybe lose the perma-scowl."

Mike rearranged his mouth into a fake, toothy smile.  "Better?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Terrible.  Practice in front of a mirror."  Harvey walked around the table and leaned against it next to Mike, close enough that Mike could feel the heat rising from his body.  "I can’t stress this enough:  no random hook-ups.  If you get horny, consider using your hand."

 _I'd rather use your hand._   Mike's smile shifted to something more natural as he gazed up at Harvey.  The silence stretched for a few seconds.  "Are you picturing me using my hand right now?"

Harvey rolled his eyes, but Mike could tell he was fighting a smile.  "Get out.  I've got work to do."

"I'll take that as a yes."

 

******

 

"I don't even know why I need to be here," grumbled Louis to Mike as the taxi let them out in front of the courthouse.  "I'm your trainer, not your freaking babysitter."

“You sure act like my babysitter,” muttered Mike.  He flinched as a flash went off in his peripheral vision.  A surprisingly large number of paparazzi had shown up today to cover his first court date with Harvey Specter.  Maybe there were legitimate sports reporters among the crowd.  Whatever the case, they were crowding too close, and jostling both Mike and Louis as they fought their way to the front door.

As usual, Louis was not taking the attention well.  "Get your damned camera out of my face," he snarled at one especially persistent photographer.  He went so far as to pull out his phone and begin photographing them back.  "There.  Got you.  And you.  And you.  You're all going on my list."

Mike had no clue what list he meant, or what he intended to do with it.  As far as he knew, the reporters were not breaking any actual laws.

Finally, they made it inside, where a security guard ensured that the paparazzi remained outside.  Mike noticed that they let in a few people with proper press credentials.  They eyed Mike curiously, as if they would like to start peppering him with questions, but left him alone for now. 

Mike and Louis were directed to a courtroom on the second floor.  They took the stairs, as neither wished to be caught in an elevator with one of the nosy reporters.  When they made it to the courtroom, they took a seat in the back to wait for Harvey.  Louis was out of breath.

"Geez, Mike," he panted, "I thought the stalkerazzi had eased off lately."

Mike let out a bitter laugh.  "Only because I’d stopped being 'interesting'." He made air quotes around the last word.  “And by interesting, I mean imploding, melting down, engaging in inappropriate displays of public affection, or otherwise fulfilling all of their worst expectations.  They must be anticipating another episode.  Hell, they probably have a pool going.”

"Then they're going to be disappointed today," said a voice behind them.  Harvey.  He sat down next to Mike.  "I expect this hearing to be short and to the point.  No drama."

"I certainly hope so," snapped Louis.  "Mike doesn't need this distraction in his life right now.  And to be honest, neither do I."

Harvey ignored him, keeping all his attention on Mike.  "I've filed a Motion for Dismissal."

"Really?"  He hadn't expected it would be that easy.  "Will that take care of the problem?"

"Slow down.  I said I filed it.  That doesn't mean the judge will grant it.  In fact, I'd be surprised if she did.  That is merely our opening salvo."

“If she denies it, what then?”

“Then we convince her that you are an exemplary citizen and a dedicated athlete, who eats the American flag for breakfast, and shits red, white and blue.”

Mike let out a disbelieving laugh.  “I’m no lawyer, but I think there might be a law against that flag thing.”

Harvey grinned at him, holding his gaze, and Mike’s world slowed down for a brief instant, like the moment after he’d hit the wall on a long ride, and suddenly broke through it, and everything was in sync again, and he felt as if he could go forever, effortless and free.  The moment stretched, and stretched, and then broke as the session of court began and Harvey shifted his attention to the front of the room.

The bailiff announced the arrival of the judge, ordering them to rise, and Mike silently let out his breath, blinking rapidly in surprise at his own reaction.  Judge Alcona took her seat and the first case was called.

“We’re up next on the docket,” Harvey whispered.  “I’ll do all the talking.  All you have to do is sit still and look honest and trustworthy.”

“What about me?” asked Louis.

“Just continue to look sweaty and constipated.  It’ll make a nice contrast to Mike.”

“Hey, look, buddy … “

“I’m not your buddy.”

Louis seemed ready to lunge across Mike at Harvey, so Mike held up a hand to prevent him from attacking.  “Let it go.  Harvey’s right.  We don’t need any drama here.”

Still looking as if he wanted to say more, Louis settled for a glower, crossing his arms, and glaring in the opposite direction.

For his part, Mike tried to relax, and was already looking forward to getting out of here and taking a nice long ride to shed the building tension.  He allowed himself a quick look at Harvey, and began to consider other ways to ease his tension. 

 

******

 

As Harvey had predicted, Judge Alcona denied the Motion to Dismiss.  She ordered that Mike should submit to all testing immediately, save for the CO2 rebreather test.  This last she left to the USOC to decide, requiring them to hear evidence for and against at a hearing to be scheduled prior to national trials in a month's time.

"Will you have enough time to put a case together?" asked Mike as they stood outside the courthouse.  "I'm supposed to leave for Colorado Springs in three weeks."

"You let me worry about that.  Your only job between now and then is to keep training, and stay out of trouble.  Think you can handle that?"

Louis was waiting for him in the cab they'd flagged down, and couldn't hear what they were saying, so Mike decided to take a chance.  "I can handle the training.  As for the rest of it … " 

"Do you need a keeper?  I could probably find someone."

"No.  Not that.  I was thinking more along the lines of a … distraction."  Harvey stared at him blankly, forcing Mike to clarify.  He felt a bit like he had back in high school, asking the cute boy he’d been crushing on to a movie.  The memory of that incident, and how he had ended up with a black eye for his troubles, caused a sudden bout of nerves, such as he hadn’t felt in years.  The only real boyfriend he'd ever had was Trevor, and that had not ended well.  It was a struggle to make himself vulnerable again, but Harvey seemed worth any potential embarrassment. 

"I-I just mean, like, maybe you could come over for dinner some night, and keep me company?"  This was greeted with continuing silence.  "If you know what I mean.  Wink, wink and all that."  He saw Harvey start to roll his eyes, and added with a touch of desperation, "You won’t regret it.  I'm very athletic."

"I don’t doubt it, but the answer is no."

Mike frowned, more disappointed than he thought he’d be.  “Why?”

"Louis was right to say you don't need a distraction in your life right now.  Almost as important, we need to keep our relationship strictly professional."

Striving for bravado, Mike stretched his mouth into a lascivious, utterly fake grin.  "That works for me, cowboy.  I've paid before.  Bill me for your time."

Harvey completed another stylish eye roll and turned to leave.  Mike could clearly see his lips twitching, however, and he didn’t look is if he wanted to punch Mike in the face.  Still grinning, he called after Harvey, "Google 'Mike Ross and prostitutes'!"

He’d meant it as a joke (mostly), but when a photographer's flash went off in front of him, he groaned.  How could he have forgotten about the paparazzi hovering close by?  He could just imagine the tabloid headlines tomorrow – or minutes from now, the way things worked these days.

As he silently berated himself, he spotted Logan Sanders (Action 7 Sports), exiting the courthouse and making for him like a heat seeking missile.  He scrambled into the cab beside Louis and ordered the driver to get moving.

"That eager to get back to training?" asked Louis.  "Love your attitude."

 

******

 

Louis worked Mike hard for the next few weeks, doubling up his track time, scheduling sessions with a sport psychologist, a masseuse, a physical therapist, and an astrologer (the last of which Mike surreptitiously canceled).   He adjusted Mike’s diet until it was nearly inedible, insisting that he needed to "get clean," and get down to his competition weight.  Mike passed all the doping tests he was required to take.  His times were not quite where he and Louis wanted to see them, but he was close.

"Quit worrying, Louis," Mike told him one day at the end of May, after his afternoon workout.  "I'm right on track.  I don't want to peak too soon."

"I'm not worried.  Who's worried?"  He pointed at his own chest.  "Not this guy."

Mike wiped his face with a hand towel.  "Not even about court tomorrow?"  True to his word, Harvey had gotten an expedited hearing. 

Louis's face tightened, a sure sign that he was about to say something annoying.  "Whatever.  Either way, things will work out."

"Either way?”  Mike squinted at Louis.  Something was off about his expression, but Mike couldn’t figure out what.  “You mean if they force me to take a test which could potentially keep me from getting on the Olympic team, you're fine with that?"

"Eh.  You've already got a gold medal.  And Rio … they've got that Zima virus going on – "

"Zika, Louis.  Zika.  If you're going to become irrationally paranoid, at least pronounce the thing right."

"Is it irrational to be concerned about my health?  Why take the chance, you know?"

Mike looked more closely at his trainer.  "What are you saying, exactly?"

"Me?  Nothing.  Just making conversation."

"If – no, when – I make it on the team, you will be going with me, right?"  No answer from Louis.  "Right?"

Louis kept his gaze on his feet.  " I might.  I don’t know.  I haven’t decided.”

“You don’t know?”  Rio had been in the forefront of both their minds for three and a half years.  How could Louis act so nonchalant about it, now that it was so close?  Mike was stunned, and rendered momentarily speechless.

“You’ll do fine without me.  The team has its own trainers.  You don’t need me."

“Louis, of course I need you.  It’s the Olympics.  It’s the fucking Olympics!”  Louis continued to stare at the ground.  "Hey, at least look at me when you're being a weaselly little … _weasel_."

Still no reply.

“What is going on with you, Louis?”

A huffy sigh.  “Fine.  The truth is, I had a job offer.”

“Some other rider’s trying to poach you?  Who is it?  Give me a name.”  Disjointed scenes of retribution and Harding-esque knee-smashing flashed in Mike's mind.

“It’s not another rider.  It’s Stanford.  They need an assistant coach for their track and field program.  The pay is amazing, and it would put me in line for a head coach position at some point down the road.  And let’s face it:  our time together is nearly at an end.  I admit the timing’s not the greatest.”

“Not the greatest?  Uh … understatement.  Can’t they wait until after Rio?”

“They need someone now.  Last week, actually.  I’ve been stalling.  I might be able to hold them off until after Colorado Springs.”

By now, Mike's shock had faded, but he was still so angry he actually considered for half a second lifting his twenty-six thousand dollar bike and throwing it at Louis’s face.  He breathed in and breathed out, getting himself back under control.  “No.  Thanks, but no thanks.  I’d rather have no trainer at all than pay you for one more second.  In case that wasn’t clear enough, you’re fucking fired.”

“You can’t fucking fire me, because I fucking quit.  And good luck finding anyone else to take you on, with all your disgusting baggage.  You're lucky I stuck with you as long as I did.”

Mike stepped right up to Louis, so that they stood chest to chest and stared him in the eyes until Louis began to fidget and look even more uncomfortable than he already had.  “You’re a fucking traitor.  If anyone asks me, that’s exactly what I’ll tell them.    

Louis’s eyes narrowed as steam seemed to come out of his ears.  "You can't talk to me like that, you arrogant little shit.  You wouldn't even have the chance to go to Rio if it wasn't for me.  You should be on your knees, thanking me for lifting you up out of the gutter and getting you back into something resembling Olympic form."

Mike laughed, trying to ignore the sting caused by Louis’s words, and the faint voice that whispered he was right.  “You know what, Louis?  You could have put me and my gold medal in Rio on your resume’.  Now you’ll just be the asshole who walked away.  Good luck getting a head coach position with a reputation like that.”

He wheeled his bike toward the locker room, ignoring the sputters of impotent rage coming from behind him.

******

As Mike prepared to get out of the whirlpool, Logan Sanders (Action Sports 7) cornered him, with his cameraman in tow.  "Mike," he said, sticking his microphone in his face, "is it true that with only a week to go before the national trials in Colorado Springs, your manager has quit on you?”

"No comment," he muttered.  Louis had obviously already given his side of the story. 

"Come on, Mike," Sanders wheedled, "isn't there anything you'd like to share with my viewers?  Give us the real story.  What led to this sudden falling out?"

"Are you prepared to pixelate again?"  This time Mike didn't wait.  He stood up, shedding water.  The cameraman continued to shoot as he stepped out of the whirlpool and toweled off.  Mike laughed at Sanders's scowling face.  "Is this going on 'Action 7 Sports After Dark'?  What are you, a fucking perv?"  He palmed his dick and held it up.  "You want to get some of this?  Is that it?  I'm not really a sex tape kinda guy, but if you want Scorsese over there to stick around and record us for posterity, I say let's do it."

Sanders finally made the "cut" motion across his throat, and the cameraman turned off the camera.  "You know, Ross, just because you have a big dick, doesn't mean you have to be one."

Mike grinned.  "Hey, thanks for noticing."

"You're such a cliché, man.  All that talent, and what do you do with it?  You just piss it away like it's nothing.  I can't wait to see where they find you when they do the 'Where Are They Now?' piece on you in ten or twenty years."

"Fuck you.  Where will you be in ten or twenty years, after that pretty face of yours gets too wrinkly, or saggy, or too pumped full of Botox to be tolerated on peoples' television screens?"

"Asshole."  Sanders turned to the cameraman.  "Let's get out of here.  This loser's not worth our time.  I'll be surprised if he even makes it to Rio.  If he actually wins gold, or any medals at all, I'll eat my microphone."  They both stomped out of the room.

Hands on hips, breathing hard, Mike stared across the room, where his bike leaned against the wall.  “Alone at last,” he whispered to it, trying and failing to find a cocky smile.

 

******

 

By the time Mike made it home to his Brooklyn loft, his emotions had taken a complete nosedive.  What had he been thinking, firing Louis?  He'd never find another trainer this close to Rio – not a competent one, anyway.  Louis may have been a humorless taskmaster, but Mike could hardly argue with his results.  He should have begged him to stay, at least through nationals.

“I am so fucked,” he whispered to himself in the bathroom mirror, following a longer than usual shower.  The pulsating water and clouds of steam had loosened his muscles, but sick tension remained in his belly and chest.

Nervous energy skittered through him as he paced through the loft, wondering what to do next.  With no family, no friends, and now no trainer, who could he call to calm him down?  He considered Harvey for a few seconds, but dismissed that idea.  Harvey had made clear how he felt about furthering a non-professional relationship with Mike.  So, that left only himself to talk himself down off the ledge.  He waved his hands around and muttered soundlessly as he tried to reassure himself that everything would be all right. 

He knew the program that Louis had put into place, and had his training schedule committed to memory.  All he had to do was stick to the routine.  No need to panic.  As long as he held onto his impulse control with an iron grip, followed his diet, and continued his reps and distance training, he’d be fine.

“You’re going to be fine.”  Saying it out loud didn’t help as he’d hoped it would.  He could already hear all the questions the press would hammer him with, and imagine the slew of stories about “Bad Boy Ross” self-destructing yet again.  

“Fuck them all,” he muttered.  Maybe he could avoid them entirely.  He didn't even have to go outside if he chose not to.  He had an indoor training bike, weight machines, a treadmill, everything he needed.  Of course, he'd have to forego his distance training, but he was close enough to trials that it probably wouldn't make a difference.  On the other hand, no one was likely to bother him as he zipped around the bike path, partially disguised by helmet and dark glasses.

Brooding, and so tense he thought he could snap in two, he stood in front of his refrigerator in an old pair of sweats, staring with distaste at the kale, and jicama and coconut water and the rest of the healthy items with which Louis had insisted he keep it stocked. 

"Blech," he decreed, deciding he would rather treat himself to some real food for once.  Ignoring the conditioned waves of guilt, he ordered a pizza with everything, rationalizing that it wouldn't make a difference if he indulged in a few extra calories just this one time.  

He told himself much the same thing when he went out to the store half a block away to buy a six pack of beer and a fifth of whiskey.  He would have preferred pot, but didn’t trust it to be out of his system when he was tested in Colorado Springs.  Alcohol was a different story, and if anyone had earned a nice, sloppy drunken evening, it was him.  That was what he told himself as he downed one beer after another after another, interspersed with shots of whiskey. 

By the time he called for a cab, and was climbing into it, he was inebriated enough that he could ignore the flash of camera lights, and the shouted questions from the press camped outside his building.

Before he pulled away from the curb, the cab driver twisted around in his seat to get a good look at him.  “You some kinda movie star or something?”

“Or something,” he mumbled, and gave the man the address to a club in Manhattan.

 

******

 

The last straw for the bouncer seemed to be when Mike stepped too close to him and tried to kiss him.  As the club manager held the door open, the bouncer grabbed Mike with both hands, and manhandled him out onto the crowded sidewalk.

“Your naked aggression will impact my Yelp review,” Mike called after him.  He swayed, thinking about it, and added, “Adversely!  If that wasn’t clear.”  He closed his eyes, wondering if he was going to throw up.

Someone shouted his name – several someones – and his eyes snapped open to find his loyal herd of paparazzi snapping away and hollering questions.

“Did you fire your manager, or did he fire you?”

“Did you hook up with anyone in there?”

“Is the pressure getting to you?”

And on and on and on, just like the annoying mosquitoes for which they were named.  He looked blearily up and down the street for a cab, but saw none currently free.  He couldn’t go back into the club, and he didn’t want to stand out here, so he started walking, struggling to get his alcohol-steeped brain to come up with a better course of action to get himself home.

Another voice called his name, and he ignored it.  A horn honked closed by.  He turned to see Harvey Specter behind the wheel of a sports car, keeping pace with him.  When Mike squinted to get a better look at him, he realized that Harvey was angry for some reason.

“Get in, Mike.”

Oh.  He was angry at Mike.

“Nah.  I’m enjoying the walk.”

The car behind Harvey honked, and then sped around him.

“Mike, get in the goddamn car.  Now.  Unless you want even more coverage of your antics?”  He inclined his head, indicating the swarming photographers.

With a low curse, Mike relented and walked unsteadily around the car to the passenger seat.  He folded himself into the tight space, and Harvey accelerated away from the curb.

The silence between them stretched until even Mike’s numbed nerves felt the tension.  “So, you were … what?  Just out for a nice drive at one in the morning?”

“Hardly.  I set up a Google alert for you.  I was just on my way to bed when news of your little excursion popped up.”

Mike snorted out a laugh.  “Jesus.  People really need to get a life.  It’s not like I’m … er … Quick.  Name a celebrity.”

“Mike Ross.”

He shook his head sadly.  “Dude.  That’s messed up.”  He glanced out the window and realized that if Harvey planned to take him home, they were headed in the wrong direction.  “You’re going to need to take a left up here if you want to hit the bridge … okay … going straight.  What’s the plan?  Do you have my address?”

“I’m not taking you home.  To your home, that is.”

“Does that mean … “

“Yes, it does.  You’re going to spend the night  -- what’s left of it – with me, where I can keep an eye on you.”

“You can keep anything you want on me.”  It was only perfunctory flirting.  A brief, exploratory sally.  Mike was too tired and drunk for an all-out campaign.

“No.”

“What?  No discussion, or regrets?  Just no?”

“We've already had this discussion.  I’m you’re lawyer.  There are ethical considerations.”

Mike’s grin turned into a yawn.  “Oh, I see.  But you thought about it, right?  You imagined us together?”

“I did not.”

“Would you consider it if you weren’t my lawyer?”

He didn’t expect an answer, but could see that Harvey was giving the question serious consideration.  Then, to Mike’s surprise, he said, “I probably would.  But the fact remains that I am your lawyer, so it’s a moot point.”

“You’re fired.  Boom.  Ethical conundrum solved.”

Harvey did not appear either angry or pleased.  What he looked was highly amused.

Which pissed Mike off.  “What’s so funny?”

“It’s funny, because you need me as your attorney right now more than you need to get your drunk ass laid.  Or has it slipped your mind that you have an important hearing tomorrow – or no, I guess that would be today.  In …”  Harvey glanced at his watch.  “In approximately eight hours.  I called earlier to give you the good news, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

“What good news?”

“The USOC agreed to defer to the court system and let Judge Alcona hear the evidence and rule on your case.  They’re willing to abide by whatever she decides.”

Mike sank back into his plush seat, staring out the front window.  “It’s not like it matters.  I suspect   the fix is in.”  He didn’t know if that was true, but it sounded appropriately gloomy, and fitting his current mood.

Harvey grunted.  After a minute or so, he asked, “Did Louis really quit?  Action Sports 7 has their own theory, but I’d like to hear the real story.”

Mike sighed.  The fight with Louis felt like it had happened days ago, but it had actually been less than twelve hours.  “No.  I fired him."

"I assume you had a good reason?"

"He told me he wouldn’t go to Rio with me.”

“Why not?”  Harvey sounded both shocked and angry, which mollified Mike somewhat.

“He got a job offer.  Claimed they needed him right away."

“Someone needs to teach him a lesson about loyalty."

Mike gave a disbelieving laugh.  "Are you offering to beat him up for me?"

Harvey shrugged.  "I doubt it would help.  Guys like him?  They're never going to get it."

Maybe Harvey was right.  Either way, it didn’t seem to matter.  They lapsed back into silence, and Mike dozed off for several minutes, only to wake up when the car stopped and the motor cut off.  He sat up and blinked rapidly.  They were in an underground parking garage

“Home sweet home?” he asked.

“Let’s go.”  Harvey got out and slammed his door shut. 

Mike watched him stride toward the elevator, admiring his grace and confidence.  He briefly considered passing out in the car and spending the night there.  At the moment, Harvey did not appear to give a shit either way.  He was curious to see where Harvey lived, however, so he climbed unsteadily out of the car and made his slightly weaving way after Harvey.  He managed to stumble into the elevator just before the doors slid shut in his face.

Noting the lit button, Mike gave a low whistle – or tried to.  It was more splutter than whistle.  “Penthouse, huh?  Mr. Fancy Pants.”

He saw the signature eye roll, and couldn’t resist more teasing.  “This has got to be compensation for something lacking in your life.”  He nudged Harvey with his elbow, only to have it slapped away. The elevator door opened straight into Harvey’s condo, and Mike was impressed for real now.  “Or in your pants.  Well?  Which is it?”

As Harvey exited, he shot back over his shoulder, “Neither.  Not that it’s any of your business.”

No, it wasn’t, but Mike damn sure wanted to make it his business.

 

******

 

Bright sunlight made Mike groan and pull the blanket over his head.  Seconds later, he realized he was not in his own bed – or a bed at all – and the blanket neither looked nor smelled familiar.  He lowered the blanket and surveyed his surroundings.  He was lying on a black leather sofa.  A huge floor to ceiling window across the room showed that he was somewhere high above the streets of Manhattan.  He wracked his aching brain, struggling to remember how he had come to be here.

The puzzle was solved moments later when Harvey strolled into the living room, shrugging into his suit jacket.  God, he looked good.  Even from across the room, Mike could tell that he smelled good too.  Seeing Harvey, he remembered how he’d gotten here.  On the plus side, he’d spent the night with Harvey.  On the negative side, he had evidently spent the night on Harvey’s sofa, and not involved in sweaty, synchronized calisthenics in Harvey’s bed.

Bummer.

Harvey gave him a dismissive glance.  “Get up.  The hearing is in two hours.  Do you have something more presentable to wear at your place?”

“What’s wrong with what I have on?”  He was wearing his nicest jeans, and his favorite t-shirt.

“For one thing, you slept in those clothes.”

Mike lifted his t-shirt collar and sniffed it.  “Smells okay to me.”

“Smells like failure and losing to me.  My driver will take you home after he drops me at work.”  He stopped fiddling with his tie long enough to give Mike a doubtful frown.  “Do you even own a suit?”

“Yes.”  He pictured the ugly tan monstrosity hidden in the back of his closet.  He only dragged it out for funerals and weddings, meaning it hadn’t seen the light of day for years.  It might be worth wearing it today, just to see the look of horror on Harvey’s face.

 

When he got home, though, he just couldn’t do it.  The thought of all those photographers recording him for posterity in his Men’s Wearhouse special of the week was too much for his pride to bear.  He settled for a pair of khakis, a blue button down shirt, distressed leather boots, and brown leather jacket.  He checked his look in the mirror, and decided he looked okay for a dumb athlete.  He went back down to the street where Ray was waiting, and they drove back downtown to meet Harvey.

As Harvey climbed into the car next to him for the short drive to the courthouse, he gave Mike’s clothes a quick once over.  Mike saw his gaze linger a little too long.  “Hm.  I suppose it will have to do,” was all he said.

******

Harvey had been gone for so long that Mike was starting to worry he wouldn’t be back before their case was called.  He let out a sigh of relief when Harvey returned and slid back into the seat beside him.

“Do you want the good news first, or the bad?”

Mike’s queasy stomach gave a lurch.  “Um, the bad?”

“The USOC went and got themselves a decent lawyer.  Travis Tanner.  I know this guy, and he’s a tough one.”

“Tougher than you?”

“ _Pfft._   Please.”

“So, what’s the good news?”

“His expert is weak.  I should be able to discredit her without much trouble.  It worries me, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s sloppy, for Tanner.  He knows I’d know about the witness.  I’m betting he’s got something up his sleeve, and she’s just a distraction.  Classic misdirection.”

“Great.”

“I’ve said it  before, and I’ll say it again:  Don’t worry.  Leave the worrying to me.”

Mike should have felt comforted, but he didn’t.  He’d spent the last four years and more being worried.  If Worry was an Olympic sport, he’d own all the records.

******

True to his word, Harvey effectively demolished Tanner’s expert.  As it turned out, she was trying to get some patents through for CO2 rebreather test equipment, which the judge agreed was a clear conflict of interest.  Mike was just beginning to relax, when Tanner dropped the bombshell at which Harvey had hinted earlier.

“I’d like to call Louis Litt as my next witness.”

Harvey was up in an instant, arguing that he’d been given no advance notice, but the judge rightly pointed out that Harvey had been the one who’d insisted on an expedited hearing, so a surprise witness was the price he would have to pay.

Louis looked so smug (and weaselly) as he was sworn in, that Mike almost regretted the hot-headed way in which he’d fired Louis – even if he had totally deserved it.  But what, he wondered, could he have to say about Mike under oath that the rest of the world didn’t already know? 

“Mr. Litt,” Tanner began, pacing up to the witness stand with this hands behind his back, “how long have you known Mike Ross?”

“Three and a half long, long years.”

“How did you meet?”

A disdainful sniff from Louis.  “He harassed me for two straight weeks with texts, phone calls, emails and unannounced visits to my home, until I finally agreed to meet with him.”

Tanner glanced over at the judge, eyebrows raised as if he could hardly believe what he was hearing.  “Why was he so persistent?  Why did he want to meet you?”

“He was desperate.  He needed a new trainer after … well, I’m sure you all know the story.  His lover’s spat with his last trainer.  His unsavory life story plastered all over the tabloids.  No one in the cycling world would touch him, so he came to me.  I was well-respected in track and field, and frankly it was a smart move on his part.  Real out of the box thinking.”

“Why did you accept the job?”

Louis shrugged.  “I like a challenge.”  He turned his gaze on Mike, sneering so hard it looked as if he’d dislocated his nose.  “Or I thought I did.”

“How was he to train?”

“Three words:  Spoiled.  Entitled.  Prima donna.  Wait.  Is that four words?  Whatever.  He was a freaking nightmare from day one.  If I hadn’t overseen every aspect of his life – from his diet, to his training schedule, to his freaking sleep schedule – he never would have made it back from the brink he’d been on when I found him.”

Mike whispered to Harvey, “That’s not true.  I was never on any brink.  He’s making all that up.”

Harvey shushed him.

Louis was still mid-rant.  “Despite my strict oversight, he managed to slip the reins every so often.  Provoking fights.  Smoking the pot.  Sleeping around.  He’ll fuck anything with a dick.”

“Objection,” said Harvey.  “Hearsay.”

The judge frowned over at Louis.  “Sustained.  And please, Mr. Litt, watch your language in my courtroom.”

“Apologies, your honor.”

Addressing Tanner, the judge asked, “Do you have anything further for this witness?  So far, I’m having trouble seeing how this applies to the matter at hand.”

“Just a couple more questions, your honor.  Mr. Litt, do you believe Mike Ross deserves to represent the United States of America at the Summer Olympic games in Rio de Janeiro?”

Harvey sprang to his feet again.  “Objection.  How is Mr. Litt’s opinion concerning my client relevant?  He’s obviously harbors ill will – ”

“Mr. Specter, kindly take your seat.”

Still looking thoroughly pissed off – which warmed Mike’s heart more than he cared to admit – Harvey sat down.

“Now,” continued the judge, “Mr. Specter has raised a perfectly valid objection.  Mr. Tanner, is this leading somewhere?”

“It is, your honor.”

“Then kindly hasten the journey.”

Tanner nodded, not appearing at all contrite.  “Mr. Litt?  Do you need me to repeat my last question?”

“No, I do not.  The answer is, absolutely not.  Mike Ross does not deserve to be selected for the team.”

“Strong words.  Why do you feel that way?”

“He doesn’t represent the Olympic ideal.  I mean, just look at him.  Who wants _that_ representing our country?”

“Objection!”

“He’s a loser, with no sense of decency or morals, or commitment to his sport.”

“Objection, your honor.  This hearing is about testing for doping.  The character assassination of my client is outrageous.”

“Calm down, Mr. Specter.  There’s no jury here to impress, only me.  And Mr. Tanner?  Unless you have another line of questioning planned, I think we’ve heard enough.”

Tanner shook his head, and Louis stood up.  Before he could leave the witness stand, Harvey had moved to stand in front of him with his hand out as if to physically shove him back into his seat.  With a quick sideways glance at the judge, Harvey said, “I assume I’m allowed to cross examine this witness?”

“You are,” the judge agreed.

Louis slowly retook his seat, his expression venomous.

“Mr. Litt,” said Harvey, “why did Mike Ross fire you?”

A shrug from Louis.  “I quit, actually, but he can think what he wants.  Like I said before:  Prima donna.”

“Did he give you a specific reason?  I mean, it didn’t just come out of the blue, did it?”

Louis fidgeted and worked his jaw.

“Do I have to remind you that you’re under oath?”

A long-suffering sigh from Louis.  “I may have mentioned that my plans for travel to Rio were … fluid.”

“Did you not, in fact, inform Mike that you had accepted a new job?”

“I was considering it.  He blew everything out of proportion, as usual.”

"Did you also cite health fears?"

"Don't you watch the news?  They've got the new Ebola going on down there!"

Harvey laughed.  "And yet you claim it was Mr. Ross blowing things out of proportion?"

Louis pressed his lips together and squirmed in his seat.  "Am I expected to answer that?"

“How about you answer this: have any other coaches or trainers dropped out, to your knowledge?”

“Not to my knowledge, but – ”

“Yes or no is fine.”

Louis’s cheek twitched.  “No.”

“I see.  Let’s talk about these behavioral problems you claim Mr. Ross possesses.  If he is as difficult as you say he is, why did you stay with him for so long?”

“I … uh … I don’t know.  He was paying me pretty well.”

“And have you ever, personally, with your own eyes, witnessed Mr. Ross taking performance enhancing drugs or engaging in blood doping?”

By now, Louis was slouched down in his seat, looking as if he’d either like to punch Harvey in the face, or jump up and run out of the courtroom.  “Not with my own eyes.  That doesn’t mean – ”

“Ah ah.  Yes or no.”

Louis actually growled.  “No.”

Harvey held out his hands and shrugged.  “Okay.”

“That’s it?”

Ignoring Louis, Harvey addressed the judge.  “I have nothing further for this witness.”

“Mr Tanner?  Do you wish to redirect?” asked the judge.

Tanner shook his head.  “We rest.”

As the plaintiff, who had brought the motion before the court, Mike’s case had already been presented by Harvey.  It had been short and sweet – no proof of doping, and an expert who confirmed that the CO2 rebreather test was likely to impact his performance.  Harvey had also pointed out that only Mike was being asked to take the CO2 test.

Now, the judge called a thirty-minute recess.  “I’ll give my ruling when we get back,” she said.

Mike breathed out slowly and turned to Harvey.  “Well?  What do you think?  Will she rule in my favor?”

“She’d be an idiot not to, and Judge Alcona is no idiot.”

Despite Harvey’s calm assurances, Mike didn’t take an easy breath until the judge came back and did, in fact, rule in his favor.  Before he had the chance to jump to his feet and pump a fist in the air, the judge cautioned him, “This ruling only applies to the national trials in Colorado Springs.  If the IOC requires a test in Rio, I’m afraid this court has no jurisdiction.”

It wasn’t precisely what Mike wanted to hear, but at least he’d been given some breathing room.  “Pun intended,” he told Harvey, who shook his head and smiled good-naturedly.

“Now all you have to do is win your qualifying races.”  He gave Mike a piercing look.  “What are you going to do about your lack of a trainer?”

Mike shrugged.  “Not much I can do at this point.  Anyone who's any good is already committed somewhere else.  I’m basically on auto-pilot right now, as far as my schedule goes.  I suppose I’ll go forward on my own.  It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Like it wasn’t a problem last night?”

Scowling, Mike headed for the door at the back of the courtroom.  Harvey easily kept pace with him.  “Mike.”

They were out in the hallway by now.  Harvey caught Mike’s arm, and wouldn’t let go.  “Mike, what do you think might have happened if I hadn’t come along last night?”

“I would have had a long walk home?”

“You would have been out there, on your own, with a pack of hungry paparazzi on your trail.  With history as our guide, I’d stay you would have either ended up in a fight, ended up in the hospital, or both.  You definitely would have ended up on page one of every tabloid publication in the country – and that’s not even including all of the internet sites.”

“So?  Then I could go to Rio, smash a few records, and give them another good old American story of loss and redemption and … and … whatever.  Stick-to-itiveness’.  Is that word?”

“Oh, and here I thought the Olympics was all about athletic excellence.”

“Jesus, don’t be naïve.  I’ll bet you thought politics was all about playing fair and telling the truth.  We’re being proven wrong on that one every day, aren’t we?”

“Mike …”  Harvey’s jaw worked as he seemed to try to come up with some way to get his point across.  “Honestly, I’m worried about you.  You have so much potential.”

“I’m going to stop you right there.  I’ve heard this speech a thousand times before.”

“Maybe because it applies so well.  I’m curious about something.  What got you started?"

Mike frowned, confused.  "What do you mean?"

"What got you started in cycling?  What made you decide to start competing?"

Harvey still had his hand on Mike's arm, and he sort of wanted it to stay there forever.  He considered Harvey's question.  "What got me started?  It was anger, I guess.  Rage."  He'd never admitted this to anyone before, but Harvey appeared so interested in what Mike was saying, that the words seemed to spill out of him.  "When my parents died in a car crash, I swore I'd never ride in a car again.  I rode my bike everywhere.  At eleven, I didn't have a lot of power, so that was the only way I could think of to … I don't know … teach cars a lesson, I guess."

"And did they learn their lesson?"  There was no mockery in Harvey's expression, only kindness and deep understanding.

"No.  They were, and remain, immune to my puny efforts."

"Not so puny.  You made it all the way to the Olympics."

"Once.  I'm not so sure about a repeat performance."

"I'm sure that if you really want it, you'll make it happen."

Mike looked away, and felt Harvey's hand slide off his arm.  He shivered at the sudden coldness that seemed to fill him again.  "I do want it."  He heard the uncertainty in his own voice, and spoke again more forcefully.  "I want it.  It's the only thing I've cared about for years."  He bit his lip and stared at the floor.

Harvey asked quietly, "And what about afterwards?  What will you care about after Rio?"

"Why does that even matter?"

"Am I not allowed to worry about my client?"

Mike gave an impatient huff and trotted down the wide marble staircase in the center of the building, with Harvey right on his heels.  Having Harvey remind him that he was only his client felt like a swift punch to the gut.  “I’m fine, Harvey," he threw over his shoulder.  "I’m always fine.  Just stay tuned to your television in August, because I intend to make history.”

He strode across the lobby and out through one of the revolving doors.  On the sidewalk outside, Harvey grabbed his arm again, and pulled him up short.  “Just promise me one thing.”

Mike raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Promise me you won’t become the flameout that Louis Litt and so many others expect you to be.  Prove them all wrong.”

It gave Mike a weird feeling to have Harvey speak to him like that – warm, and calming and fluttery at the same time – even though he knew it was only professional concern.  “Yeah.  Of course.  You’ve given me the chance I needed, so yes.  I promise.”  Playing it off for laughs, he slapped a hand over his heart.  “On my honor as an Olympic athlete, and an American, I do solemnly swear not to fuck this all up.  There.  Happy now?”

Half of Harvey’s mouth was frowning, and the other half was fighting a smile.  He shook his head.  “Ecstatic.  Call me if you need to talk.  Any time.  For any reason.”

Mike didn’t feel like laughing any longer.  “Okay.  I will.  I may just hold you to that.”

“Good luck in Colorado Springs.”

“Luck?  I don’t need no stinking luck.”

“Everyone needs a little luck sometimes.”

“Hey, I train hard.  If you don’t believe me, come see me any day of the week at the Kissena Park velodrome in Queens.”  Somewhere between last night and this moment he had apparently decided that he wouldn’t hide away in his loft after all.

Harvey’s only response to the invitation was a soft grunt.

“Will I … can we … will I see you again?" asked Mike.

“If you need an attorney, don’t hesitate to call me.”

And then Harvey was walking away from him, lowering himself into the back of his town car.  Mike watched the black sedan pull away from the curb and disappear into traffic with a feeling of intense loss such as he hadn’t felt since his grandmother slipped away from him.

 

******

 

Louis had been worried about the possibility of getting sick in Rio, but he should have saved his concern, Mike decided, for Colorado Springs.  He’d spent his first few days there growing accustomed to the altitude.  (Denver might be the Mile High City, but Colorado Springs had her beat by nearly a thousand feet.)   As the week of qualifying heats wore on, he came down with a nasty cold that had him thanking the fates (and Harvey … mostly Harvey) that he didn’t have to take the CO2 rebreather test. 

His second day there, he spotted Trevor on the far side of the track, speaking intently to a young man named Miller, who Mike knew was one of the young, rising stars of cycling.  As he watched them, Trevor glanced up in Mike's direction.  He must have seen him, but gave no indication, and carried on with the conversation as if nothing had happened.  Mike felt so alone in that moment that it became an effort to draw a decent breath – an effort which had nothing to do with the altitude, or the onset of illness.

As his cold progressed, draining both his strength and enthusiasm for competition, he spent an inordinate amount of time dwelling on his last conversation with Harvey at the courthouse.  He'd devoted so many years to setting goals, reaching them, and moving towards the next one, that he'd lost sight of why he was doing this.  It seemed half insane, suddenly, all those early mornings when he could have rolled over and gone back to sleep, the mind-numbing repetitions on the track and at the gym, and the endless push to be just a little bit better, and go just that much faster.

He was no stranger to occasional bouts of searching self-doubt, but now, as he observed all the other athletes, and trainers, and coaches, and the fans in the bleachers, his isolation had never felt so stark, and his hopes for the future beyond Rio so hollow. 

He kept going, regardless, because he couldn't imagine doing otherwise.  Even though he'd bragged to Harvey that he didn't need luck, he ultimately was left believing luck was the only thing that enabled him to scrape together enough energy to beat out his equally ailing competitor and take first place in the sprint, ensuring him a spot on the U.S. team.  It was Miller that he'd beaten, Trevor's rider.  In the middle of congratulating Mike, Miller was pulled away by his trainer, who shot Mike a look that wasn't completely hostile, but could not be called friendly either.  In any case, he did not deign to speak to Mike.

"Fug you too," Mike croaked under his breath, and blew his nose.

A day later, Mike was more surprised than relieved when he came in second in the keirin, making him a question mark in Rio for that event.  If his time ended up above the yellow line for competitors for all countries, he’d earn the right to compete in that race as well. 

At the end of the week, as he coughed his lungs out and dealt with a seemingly never-ending flood of mucous, the four-man sprint and pursuit teams were announced.  He wasn’t included in either group, and even though he knew this was tentative, and could be changed in Rio, it came as a huge letdown.  The best he could likely do now was equal his one gold medal in London.  It almost didn't seem worth all the work he'd put in.

By the time he’d endured the flight home and was climbing out of the taxi from the airport, he was ready to fall face down into his bed and sleep, perhaps all the way through until autumn.  As he was peeling off his clothes, his phone signaled the arrival of a text.  It was from Harvey.

_“Congratulations.  Onward to Rio.”_

Mike scowled at his phone and sneezed as he texted him back.  _“One event confirmed, two more a weak maybe.  But thanks.”_

_“Heard you had a cold.”_

_“Must be a slow news day.  Anyway, not a cold … The Cold.”_

_“Take care.  Need any chicken soup?  TLC?”_

Mike frowned regretfully.  Harvey wasn’t flirting with him, was he?  It didn’t matter, because Mike was too tired to flirt back, even with Harvey.  _“Rain check?”_

_“I’ll hold you to it.”_

Mike was still frowning as he crawled into bed.  What had caused this change in Harvey?  Maybe since he’d won Mike’s case, he didn’t consider himself his attorney any longer.  Mike would have to explore that possibility later.  Right now, he needed to sleep, and get better, and then if he was still serious about winning, he needed to turn up his training to one hundred and fifty percent.  Rio was just over two months away, and he needed every day and every hour between now and then to prepare.

 

******

“I’m recommending complete cessation of all vigorous exercise for one week, minimum.”

Mike stared open-mouthed at Dr. Mann.  “Do you know who I am?”  He realized how that sounded, but before he could walk back the words, the grey-haired doctor chuckled.

“I do, but it doesn’t matter.  Your acute bronchitis has gone untreated for too long, and your irritated bronchial tubes are causing asthma-like symptoms.  I’ve tested your sputum, and although it has a small amount of blood in it, I’ve ruled out both tuberculosis and lung cancer.”

Mike hadn’t even considered any of that, and gave an involuntary shudder.  “So, it’s no big deal, then.”

“It’s not a big deal if you take it easy and allow the irritation to subside.”

“I’m supposed to leave for Rio – you know, the Olympics? – in a month and a half.  I need to keep training up until then.”

“I’m sorry, Mike.  If you don’t follow my advice, I can almost guarantee that your breathing will become severely compromised.  Take a week off.  Your performance will be the better for it in the long run.”

“Can’t you just give me some antibiotics?”

“They won’t help in your case.”

Mike sighed, and started coughing again, as if his lungs were eager to prove Dr. Mann’s point.  “Fine.  One week.”

“That’s the spirit.  I’ll be watching you on the television.  Make us proud.”

Mike grumbled unintelligibly at him and left his office.

 

******

 

As it turned out, Dr. Mann’s advice was solid.  A week and a half later, with just over a month to go before his flight to Rio, Mike finally felt like his old self.  Or close enough to fill him with relief.  He flew around the velodrome, pedaling hard, everything feeling in sync, just as it should be.

The timer on his watch bleeped, telling him that his reserved track time was nearly over.  He slowed gradually, pedaling easily for three more laps, and then coasted to a stop.

“You’re looking pretty good for a guy on his death bed.”  Harvey stood next to the track in his three-piece suit and silk tie, grinning at Mike. 

“Is that what the trash papers are saying about me now?”

“Among other things.  I thought I’d better come see for myself.  What’s the real story?”

Mike wheeled his bike towards the locker room, while Harvey walked along beside him.  “The cold I caught in Colorado Springs got into my lungs, and stuck around longer than was strictly polite.  If you’d been here a week ago, you would have missed me.  I was on doctor ordered bed rest.”

“I know.”

Inside the locker room, Mike raised an eyebrow at him and peeled his t-shirt off his sweaty torso. 

“I did show up a week ago,” Harvey admitted.

“Huh.”  Mike hesitated momentarily before he stripped down the rest of the way, and then figured, why not?  He dropped his clothes on a nearby bench and headed toward the shower, which he turned on.  When the water was hot enough, he stepped inside and began to soap up.  He called out to Harvey, “So were you just in the neighborhood, or what?”

“Queens is hardly in the neighborhood.  No, you issued an open invitation, and I was curious to see an Olympic level athlete in action.”

Mike poked his head out of the shower stall to see Harvey leaning against the wall, appearing perfectly at ease.  “And?  Was it everything you thought it would be?”

“And more.”

Silence, thick with something more than steam, hung between them.  “If you weren’t wearing so many clothes …” said Mike.

“If I wasn’t, then what?”

“Then I’d ask you to join me in here.”

“Tempting.  I have a meeting downtown in forty-five minutes, so ….”

“Too bad, I’m – ”

“I know.  You’re very athletic.”

Encouraged by the look on Harvey’s face, Mike pushed further.  “You know, Harvey, my case is over.  I'd say technically, you're no longer my attorney.  Couldn’t we do dinner tonight?  And you know … whatever that leads to?”

“Doesn’t your training preclude that sort of extracurricular activity?”

“My new trainer is extremely lenient.”

Harvey seemed to hesitate, but finally shook his head, clearly regretful.  “You just got over being sick.  Give me a call when you get back from Rio, and we'll see.”

“I will.”  Mike wanted to pump a fist into the air, but restrained himself, opting to play it cool.

“Good luck.”  Harvey turned to leave.

Scrambling to shut off the water and grab a towel, Mike practically sprinted after him, dripping and barefoot.  So much for playing it cool.  “Wait.  Just wait a second.”

Harvey stopped at the door and turned back around.  He raised an eyebrow, waiting for Mike to speak.

“Before you go, I just … I’m curious about one thing.  Do you think I could …”

“Could what?”

Mike’s answer was to lean in and press his lips to Harvey’s, being as careful as he could not to get him wet.  For several seconds the kiss was nothing more than an awkward, frozen tableau.  Then Harvey’s mouth softened and his arms went around Mike, pulling his against his expensive suit.  He kissed him back urgently, tilting his head and cupping the back of Mike’s head.  His tongue invaded Mike’s mouth.  Mike clutched Harvey’s shoulders for support, and his towel slipped free and dropped to the concrete floor.

Harvey broke the kiss first.  When Mike’s eyes fluttered open, he caught Harvey licking his lips, as if collecting the lingering taste of Mike that he found there.

“You’re wet,” said Mike breathlessly.

“I am, indeed.”

“So … dinner?”

With his lips pressed together, eyes telegraphing his frustration, Harvey shook his head.  “After Rio.  After that, yes.  Just stay healthy and stay focused on the goal, all right?”

Mike nodded, not trusting his voice.  At that moment, he couldn’t remember exactly what the goal was, or why it had seemed so important.

 

******

 

Mike had been hearing alarming news about the Athlete’s Village in Rio in the weeks before he flew down there, and so was pleasantly surprised to find his room on the ninth floor of the US section to be in good shape, with everything clean and in proper working order.  Evidently the host city had worked diligently to correct any last-minute problems.

He was sharing his small apartment with two of the members of the men's pursuit team, Murat and Miller, both of whom gave him serious side eye when he arrived last, and they saw who would be staying with them in the suite's third bedroom. 

“Hey, guys,” he said, showing them his most charming grin, “don’t worry.  The rumors about me are greatly exaggerated, and none of it is catching.  I’m just here to compete.”  He was tempted to ask Miller how Trevor was, but decided to leave that can of worms unopened

Murat ignored him and returned to his bedroom to continue unpacking.  Miller frowned, but nodded in a semi-civil manner.  “Same here.  Just … no offense man, but I’d rather you didn't do any hooking up in here.”

Mike swallowed his knee jerk, angry response, and continued smiling.  “Wouldn’t dream of it.  To reiterate: just competing.  Not here to party.”

Miller smiled at him.  “Someone obviously thinks differently.  Hey, that wasn’t a personal attack.  It's just, you should see the number of condoms they stocked in the bathroom.”

Mike gave an uncertain laugh.  "How … hospitable?"

Miller glanced at his watch.  "Well, I gotta go.  My folks are meeting me downstairs."  He grimaced and rolled his eyes.  "The obligatory pre-race dinner."

Mike mirrored his grimace.  "I know.  So annoying, right?" 

"You got any family coming down?"

Mike shook his head.

"Lucky you.  See you around."

Mike watched him go.  _Yep, lucky him._   He spotted Murat watching him across the common room with palpable hostility, and closed his bedroom door to block out the sight of him.

 

******

 

As competition got underway, Mike was glad he had a previous Olympics under his belt.  It made the schedules and procedures less confusing.  He easily made it to all his scheduled training times and races, even as other athletes scrambled and groaned about how far away everything seemed to be.

Mike ignored them, and concentrated on his races.  One reason the sprint had always been his favorite, was because it involved a mental game as much as athletic prowess.  The riders started out slowly, sometimes at a near standstill, feeling each other out, waiting to see who would break first and put on the speed.

Three riders were in his first heat.  He let the Australian and the Dane jockey back and forth for the first lap, and then zipped past them, winning the heat easily, by nearly half a bike's length.  He took a couple of cool down laps and returned to his assigned spot in the center of the track, where idle riders could wait with their bikes for their next race to be called.  This early on, the stands were maybe three-quarters filled, but the cheers as each race and rider was announced were loud and enthusiastic.

He sat on the ground and drank some water, ignoring the nervous athletes pacing around him, checking their equipment, warming up their muscles, and chatting with their trainers.  In down times like these, his isolation stood out starkly, but Mike’s nerves had calmed with his first heat successfully behind him.  The path before him was simple and clear, and all he had to do was what he’d been training for over ten years. 

Someone called his name and he glanced up to see the head US cycling coach making his way across the field toward him, accompanied by a woman carrying a clipboard, with official credentials hanging around her neck.  He climbed slowly to his feet, heart rate accelerating as he guessed what they wanted. 

“Ross,” said Coach Graves, “you need to report to the testing tent, ASAP.  This is your chaperone.”

His stomach seemed to drop right out of him at the words.  “What?  Why?”  He addressed his questions to Coach Graves.

“Because the IOC has selected you.  That’s all I know.  Better get moving, or you won’t have time to get ready for your next heat.”

Mike stared at the man, frozen for several seconds before he managed to get his feet moving in the direction of the yellow tent in the far corner of the field, escorted closely by the chaperone.

Inside the tent, he was handed his own clipboard, with a form to fill out, and a plastic urine cup and lid.

“Fill out the form,” the chaperone instructed.  “A monitor will accompany you while you pee in the cup, after which we'll be doing a blood draw.”

“But I’ve got more races today.”  She hadn't said anything about the CO2 rebreather test, but his mind went there automatically, assuming that would be included.

“If you refuse, it’s an automatic disqualification.”

He couldn’t believe this was happening, but he also knew the rules, and she was right.  His hands shook as he started filling out the forms.  He could only hope that his lungs were up to the challenge. 

As he waited for the chaperone to return for his completed form, he pulled out his phone and dialed Harvey's phone number.  He didn’t expect him to be able to stop what was about to happen, but Mike was freaked out enough that he needed a familiar, reassuring voice, and Harvey was the only person that came to mind.  Unfortunately, Harvey was not answering his phone.  The call went straight to voicemail.

"Hey.  It's me.  Mike.  Calling all the way from beautiful Rio de Janeiro.  I'm getting ready to pee in a cup, and have other precious bodily fluids confiscated.  I'm pretty sure I'm getting the CO2 test, too.  So, it might be all over today.  Don't know if you heard, but I'm out for the keirin, and I haven't been approached yet for either of the team events so … yeah.  If you were serious about dinner after the Olympics, that could happen as early as tomorrow.  Okay, the nice lady is back for my urine so … wish me luck."

 

******

 

Mike's worst fears turned out to be unfounded.  The only tests administered to him were the urine sample and blood draw, which he knew he would pass with no problem.  He was still rattled enough that he nearly blew his next heat, but managed to squeak out a win.  He made it into the top 16, and went back to his room in the village feeling reasonably good about his chances for gold, but also suffering a thousand deaths of embarrassment over that message he'd left for Harvey, who must think Mike was a hysterical idiot for coming unglued like that. 

Harvey did not return the call, leaving Mike to believe that he'd blown his shot with Harvey entirely.  He ordered himself not to dwell on it.  Unless he wanted his trip here – and the last four years – to be a complete bust, he needed to keep his focus on his races.  It wasn't easy, though.  Apparently, he'd been more invested in the idea of acquiring an actual boyfriend than he had been prepared to admit to himself.

Murat or Miller must have been out late, partying it up somewhere.  Mike heard one of them through the thin walls, vomiting noisily in the bathroom.  He turned on his side and jammed a pillow over his ear.  It didn't cut out the sound entirely, but served well enough to allow him to fall back asleep.

 

******

 

The next day, the quarter and semifinal heats were scheduled.  As he boarded the team bus, the cycling coach approached him once again, and he couldn't help the groan that escaped him at the thought of another round of doping tests.  The coach made no comment, but he did give him a funny look.

"How are you feeling, Ross?"

"Fine."  The truth was, he was a little tired from being kept awake by the midnight vomiter, but he kept that to himself.

"I know you're busy with your sprint heats today, but a spot on the pursuit team has opened up.  The finals are this afternoon.  I think you're rooming with Murat, so maybe you already know that he managed to go and get some kind of bug, which has him down for the count.  I heard you’ve done a few team pursuits."

"Heard?  Who from?"

"Trevor Evans, Brian Miller's trainer."

He didn't mention Trevor's past association with Mike, but he suspected the coach knew all the details.  Who in the cycling world didn't?

"Ah," was the only response Mike could manage.

"Well?  You interested?"

Was he?  He had a couple of heats today (assuming he continued to advance), but the sprints final wasn't until tomorrow.  "Yeah.  Sure."

"Great.  Talk to Miller.  He's team captain.  He'll fill you in on the strategy.  And hey, good luck on your other races."

 

******

 

As he'd hoped, Mike advanced to the final four in the sprint, and would compete for medals the next day. 

The team pursuit final was a wild ride, as he had expected it would be.  The two teams raced on opposite sides of the velodrome track, each with their four riders lined up, one behind the other.  The lead rider moved to the back, and then the next lead moved back, and the next, sort of like a reverse game of leapfrog. 

He concentrated on not falling, or getting in the way of one of his teammates, and they ultimately ended up taking the bronze.  When they stood on the podium, arms around one another's shoulders for their global photo op, for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like "bad boy Ross."  Instead, he felt part of a team, and proud of what they had accomplished.  He couldn't help being a little humbled by the unadulterated joy these men felt for what he'd always thought of as "a mere bronze."  To them, there was no "mere" about it.  They were bringing home a medal, and they were jazzed as fuck about it. 

The other three members of the team invited Mike out to a celebratory dinner with them, but he reluctantly begged off.  His final races were tomorrow, and he needed to stay focused.

After a shower and a light dinner alone in his room, he lay on his bed with his headphones on, listening to the playlist he’d put together for the purpose of relaxation, including classical and jazz and instrumental folk music.  He visualized the gold medal race, picturing it from start to finish, again and again.  

Tinny blues-rock intruded on Albinoni's _Adagio in G Minor_ , and he opened his eyes to see his phone lit up on the nightstand.  He tugged off his headphones, and now "Sharp Dressed Man" blared through the room. 

Harvey's ringtone.

Mike fought down a quick flare of resentment.  It took Harvey a day and a half to get back to him?  On the other hand, he _had_ gotten back to him.  Deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, and focus on how glad he was to hear from him, Mike picked up the phone.

"Hola," he said brightly.

"Isn't that Spanish?"

"It's the same here, except the accent is different.  Or something."

"Also, no 'h'."

"Is that why you called?  To give me a remedial lesson in Romance Languages?"  Mike heard how that sounded – both the sharpness of his voice, and the word "romance," which seemed to glow neon in the air in front of him – and he cringed.

"No," replied Harvey, sounding amused, "I called because for some reason, my calm assurances that I'm not a mad bomber are not enough to get me through the gate."

"The what, now?"

"You're a smart guy.  Put the pieces together."

Mike had already put the pieces together.  He just didn't believe what they were showing him.  "You're here?  You're actually here?  In Rio?"

"What do you know?  Not just a pretty face after all."

"I'm not – "

"Are you going to keep me waiting out here all night?"

"Hang on.  Keep your pants on – while I put mine on.  I'll be right down."

Mike couldn't believe it.  Had Harvey really gotten on a plane and flown down here just because of his panicked phone call?  That had to mean something, right?  That went above and beyond for a mere attorney-client relationship.  Didn't it?  Was something happening here?  Mike didn't want to get his hopes up, but the only conclusion he could reach was that Harvey had come because he actually cared about him.

As he dressed, his hands shook with excitement.  For the first time since Trevor had dumped him, he had a boyfriend.  Maybe.  Maybe had a boyfriend, if he wasn't overreacting and reading too much into this unexpected visit. 

"Calm your dick down," he ordered himself as he waited for the elevator.  "Just … be cool."

 

******

 

Mike wasn't hungry, but he accompanied Harvey to a nearby _churrascaria_ and watched him elegantly devour a gorgeous cut of beef called _pichana,_ while he sipped a sparkling water and peppered Harvey with questions.

"Why are you here?  How did you get here so fast?  Where are you staying?"

Harvey carved off another slice of beef and spoke around it while he chewed, which should have been disgusting, but managed to look like the pinnacle of sophistication on him.  "This is amazing."  He gestured at his plate.  "We're definitely coming back here after your final race.  You have got to try this."

"Eh, I might have to work up to that.  It's been a while since my body has had to digest that much meat all at once.  And don't think I didn't notice that you haven't answered my questions."

"Okay.  After I got your panicked voicemail – "

" _Pfft._   I wasn't panicked."

"Could have fooled me.  I figured you could use some legal counsel."

The stab of disappointment Mike felt at that took him by surprise.  "So, you're only here as my attorney?"

Harvey didn't answer him.  He continued eating, appearing too interested in his food to look up and make eye contact with Mike.

"Because," Mike continued, "it turns out I pan – er, grew momentarily worried for nothing.  All they wanted was my blood and piss."

"Sounds like a few dates I had when I was younger."

"Um, gross.  And TMI."

"My experimental years.  I've moved past it.  No worries."

"Good to know."  As much as Mike enjoyed trading barbs with Harvey, he hadn't lost sight of his question.  _Had_ Harvey shown up only to represent him if any legal troubles cropped up?  Or, dared Mike still hope this was more in the nature of a personal visit?  "Now that you know everything is a-okay, testing-wise, are you planning to stick around, or fly right back to New York?"

Harvey gave a careless shrug, and wiped his mouth with his napkin.  "As it happens, I did manage to score a pretty good seat at the velodrome tomorrow."

"At this late date?"

"I have a friend at the Brazilian Embassy in New York."

Mike laughed, shaking his head.  "Of course you do."

"And maybe …"  Harvey kept his gaze fixed on his empty plate, appearing uncharacteristically sheepish.

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe it wasn't so last minute."

Mike stared at him, processing what Harvey seemed to have just admitted.  "Are you saying you planned to fly down for the final all along?"

Harvey shrugged.

"You didn't even know if I'd make it that far."

"Sure I did."  Harvey finally raised his gaze to meet Mike's.  "I deal with winners every day.  Some of the top athletes in the world are my clients.  I know what a winner looks like when I see one."

Mike almost believed him.  Then he grinned and pointed a finger at Harvey.  "You're saying that to get in my pants, right?"

Harvey smiled, not denying it.  "Is it working?"

"God yes."  Mike took a long swallow of water.  "But not tonight.  Don't want to weaken my legs."

"Oh, I understand.  We wouldn't want to sap your precious bodily fluids before the big race."

The way Harvey said, "precious bodily fluids" made Mike shiver with want, and briefly consider just saying _screw the race_.  He cut his gaze away, and then back again to find Harvey watching him closely.  "Hey, did you hear I won a bronze medal today?"

Harvey's warm brown eyes narrowed, and his smile transformed into a filthy smirk.

"What?" asked Mike.

"I'm picturing you in your medal."

 _And nothing else._   He didn't say it, but Mike could see the implication in his eyes, and hear it in his tone.

Mike leaned in and lowered his voice.  "If that gets you hot, switch the bronze for a gold."

"Mm.  Yeah.  That's really working for me."  Harvey's smile creased his face, making him look even more ridiculously handsome than usual.

Mike tipped his head back and laughed out loud.  It felt like the first honest laugh he'd had in years, prompted by the realization that he'd just discovered a whole new incentive for winning gold.  "Just the right amount of pervy.  This is going to be good, you and me.  I can feel it."

"You might just be right."  Harvey reached across the table to grab Mike's hand, and didn't let it go until the waitress returned to clear away his dishes.

 

*****

 

Mike's bike advanced a couple of meters.  The German followed right at his flank, moving as slowly as Mike, who angled up to the outside, highest part of the slanted track, and inched forward, wobbling slightly, waiting for the other man to make his move.

They were halfway through the first lap of three when the German broke, putting on a burst of speed and dropping quickly down to the inner part of the track.  Mike slid in right behind him, and hung there, staying in contact, and drafting off him.  He hunched over his handlebars like a jockey, presenting the most aerodynamic profile possible.  His legs moved like pistons, pumping the pedals.  His rapid, regular breaths seemed to echo inside his helmet, and his heart thudded a strong, steady beat.

One and a half times around the track he flew, all but pasted to the rear wheel in front of him, and then there was one lap to go.  In real time, it passed in almost the blink of an eye, but for Mike, the world slowed as his consciousness seemed to expand, each sense alert, each molecule in his body knowing just what it needed to do to achieve victory.

He ratcheted himself up a gear, and then another, coming almost even with the German.  As they rounded the final turn, he came up level to him, and then immediately put on a fresh burst of speed.  Air seared his lungs, and his legs churned, supercharged.  He pulled ahead a fraction.  He could almost feel the heat and determination of his competitor, inches away.

The finish line was … right …. There. 

Mike poured his last reserves of energy into his efforts, surging forward and over the line an arm’s length ahead of the German.  

Raising his fists in the air, he let out a wild whoop.  He was flying high, riding a crescendoing wave of elation, much as he had in London.  This time, it wasn't tempered by grief, or fear that his future could never hope to compete with the present. 

As he zipped around the track, gradually slowing, cooling down, his gaze sought out the spot where Harvey was seated, in the first row of spectators at the finish line. 

Most of the crowd remained on their feet, cheering his win.  He spotted Harvey, who was standing as well, eyes glued to Mike, doing a slow clap, with a wide, approving smile on his face.  Mike passed him, and then almost missed the next turn.  He came around the track one more time, just coasting, letting the bike roll to a stop in front of Harvey.

And then, in front of the crowd, and the cameras, and the world, he let his twenty-six thousand dollar bike drop inelegantly to the ground, stalked over to the stands, climbed over the metal railing, grabbed Harvey’s face in both gloved hands, and kissed him, long and hard.

Flashes went off everywhere, like fireworks at ground level.  Fireworks went off throughout his nervous system as well, fired by the way Harvey pulled him close, and tongued confidently into his mouth.  When he finally pulled away, Harvey gazed at Mike as if he never wanted to look away.

"You're amazing," he told Mike.  "And you do realize that kiss will be the lead story for every news outlet in the world, right?"

"Oh, shit.  Are you not – ?"

"It's fine."  As if to prove he meant it, Harvey went in for another kiss.  When they surfaced from this one, Mike spotted an NBC reporter hustling his cameraman in their direction.

"Uh, Harvey?  Unless you want to swept up into the circus that is my life, for the next couple hours at least, you should probably make a run for it now."

"I'm not running," Harvey said.  "I am, however, going to step back and give you your well-deserved moment in the spotlight.  You've earned it, after all."  He leaned in for one more quick kiss.  Before he moved away, he whispered in Mike's ear, "Meet up with me later?  I'm staying at the Fasano.  Room 804."

He slid a key card down the front of Mike's uniform, adding before he left, "And bring your gold medal."

 

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
